Hellacious Hangover
by Joey51
Summary: Seth and Ryan suffer the consequences of drinking on a school night.
1. Default Chapter

A/N- This little diddy was inspired by a friend who was apparently suffering from, and I quote, a 'hellacious hangover'. However, it was also inspired by that pesky TWoP thread, which proposed the challenge that required Ryan to, at some point, be sans clothes. Alas, combining those two ideas, this is what I came up with.

Anyway, this was just for fun. A little break from the hard-core angst. This one's for you, Brandy!

****

Hellacious Hangover

I don't know how long I've been unconscious, but I can say with certainty that it wasn't long enough. This yuppie town has made me soft. I can't remember the last time that a few drinks had this kind of effect on me. Then again, I think it was more than a few drinks. In fact, I don't know how many drinks I consumed, but I do remember someone cutting me off. I've never been cut off. I mean, who cuts people off? Especially at a party…a party in Newport, no less.

I turn over and blindly attempt hitting the snooze button. Somehow, my efforts only result in an increase in volume, so I swipe at the alarm clock until it falls to the floor. Unfortunately, it continues to work with a significant amount of additional static.

Fuck. I have to go to school. I have no idea how I'm going to make it, but it's gotta be done. The Cohens would kill me if they found out I skipped a day of class because of a hellacious hangover. That's what this is, hellacious. There isn't enough Advil in the world….

With my hands gripping the edge of the bed, and my eyes squinting out the limited but intrusive light squeaking through the poolhouse blinds, I manage to sit up and let my feet drop heavily to the floor. Even the measured and gradual change of position sends my stomach into an uproar. I bow my head, hold my breath and pray I don't mess up the immaculate décor of the room. So far so good…if you can call it that. Who am I kidding? This is a fucking disaster….

The radio crackles and sputters as it struggles to maintain its connection. I should really turn it off, but I don't want to bend over. Even though it lies only a couple feet away from me, I feel like I would have to climb Everest with only one leg to accomplish my goal. Instead, I stretch my right foot forward and fumble around the buttons with my big toe until, finally, the horrendous noise ceases. The relief isn't quite as sweet as I had anticipated.

The upside down numbers on the digital alarm clock show that I have ten minutes to get up, get dressed and get out. The mere thought makes me dizzy. This is not cool. When I feel like I can talk without puking, I'm going to yell at Seth. There should be a rule against major drunken parties on weeknights. Next year, if Seth's birthday falls on a school night, he's going to have to settle for an Imax movie and a piece of cake. This isn't working for me. Maybe all these preppy Newport kids can feign genuine illness and miss a day at school, but that's not an option for me. The Cohens would know…Dr. Kim would know. She's like the fucking she-devil.

A lingering shiver runs through my entire body and it's at that moment that it hits me. I'm not wearing any clothes. No boxers, no wife-beater, nothing. I'm completely, totally naked and that scares the shit out of me. I never sleep naked, and even if I was drunk out of my mind, I don't think I would have taken off my underwear. Who…shit…the thought alone makes me want to vomit. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to _think _at all.

I push off the side of my bed and onto my feet, the cold floor against my skin provokes another shiver, and it's all I can do to stumble over to the side of the room and grab my boxers off the lamp shade. I don't want to know, and really, I don't care right now. Instant relief floods through my chest when I slide them on, but it is short-lived when I see that my pants from the previous night are folded neatly in a pile on the floor beside the chair. I wrack my memory for a grand total of three seconds before I realize that hurts too much. Everything hurts. I feel like I've been hit by a truck then steamrolled into the pavement. How the hell did my mom do this every single day? Alcohol's the devil….

I leave my pants where they are… again with the fear of bending over. Instead, I shuffle to the shelves where I grab some clean jeans, a wife-beater and a sweater, which I hope will stop my body from shaking so violently.

I lower myself onto the bed and toss the jeans onto the floor, where I try to direct my feet into the appropriate leg-holes. The process is tedious but more appealing than having to use my hands, which would require some sort of bending over. And let's face it, that's simply not an option this morning.

After much fumbling, I mange to get my pants pulled up to my knees and lift my ass up off the bed just enough so that I can pull them up around my waist. I don't zip and button right away because I fear that would put pressure on my stomach…which would undoubtedly result in a mess.

I pat the bed behind me until I feel the familiar material of one of my many wife-beaters. I clench the fabric between my fingers and pull it into my lap, unfolding and slipping it over my head in one habitually swift motion.

"Oh God…."

I hear the words uttered in what sounded like my voice, but I can't recall saying them. However, it's obvious why they were said. Bright pink and white spots are dancing in front of my eyes and a jolting wave a nausea rips its way through my body.

I let instincts take over and it's almost as if I'm standing in the corner watching myself hold up my jeans with one hand as I stumble up the steps and through the bathroom door.

I can't say that I'm surprised. This was obviously going to happen. It was just a matter of time. I was just in denial thinking it could somehow be prevented. No such luck. Instead, I cling to the rim of the porcelain God and pray for death. Hellacious doesn't even begin to describe this hangover.

………………………

I hold onto the railing tightly as I pretty much fall my way down the stairs. This is so not good. There isn't a chance in hell I'm going to make it through a full day of school. I think I've been hungover, like, once in my entire life, and it doesn't even hold a candle to what I'm going through right now. How does Marissa do this all the time? Who cares…I shouldn't think. All I know is I woke up at four am with a blinding headache, wearing one of Ryan's wife-beaters. I don't even want to know how that came about.

I slowly shuffle into the kitchen and aim for the one vacant stool by the counter. On any other day, I would have been concerned seeing Ryan with his head resting against the counter, his face buried in the sleeves of an oversized sweater, but not this day. Nope. I know what's going on today. Too much beer…and vodka…and tequila. Shit, I think I'm going to throw up…again. In the past five hours or so, I've come to realize that the toilet's my friend. We're close.

Miraculously, I get to the stool before toppling over, pull my aching, shaking body up into the seat, and assume the same position as my booze buddy to my right. Seems to be working for him.

After what I assume is a few minutes of complete and utter agony, I hear a soft groan coming from next to me.

"Dude?" I manage to squeak out without giving way to the building nausea in my gut.

"Mmmm…." Is the only response.

I turn my head slightly to the right. All I can see is a mop of blond hair and grey fabric from his sweatshirt. "I don't know if I'm going to make it today," I moan.

For the first time this morning, he moves; his eyes peak out from underneath his hair and behind his forearm. Other than that, he's silent. I suppose he's agreeing with me…Ryan Atwood style.

"Do you remember coming home?" My voice cracks halfway through the question, but from what I can see, he has no reaction.

Finally, he lifts his head up slightly, squinting his eyes, apparently deep in thought. "Why was I naked?"

I want to laugh, I really do, but think better of it shortly after. Instead, I respond using as little breath and energy as possible. "You were naked? I don't remember that…."

"No," he starts in a forced whisper, closing his eyes and swallowing deeply. "This morning."

"I don't know, dude. Can't help you there."

He keeps his eyes closed and lowers his head back down against the counter. I follow his lead, allowing my own forehead to rest against the cool granite.

I think my head's going to explode. Even the sound of my own breathing adds to the monstrous headache pounding behind my eyes. Alcohol's the devil. I'm never celebrating a birthday ever again.

………………………..

I glance at my watch as I meander down the steps toward the kitchen. It's going to be tight. Really tight. I'll have to rush to get the boys to school if I want to make it on time.

I didn't even hear Seth come in last night. Kirsten normally waits up but she was out so early this morning that I didn't get a chance to ask what time they got in. Even though it was a school night, their curfew was extended a couple of hours because it was Seth's birthday. I suppose we'll have to do the same for Ryan's birthday if it falls on a weeknight, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

The second I turn the corner and enter the kitchen, I stop with a jolt. The boys are both slumped on the stools, their faces plastered to the counter, their hair mussed and standing up at awkward angles. I look behind me and around, then step closer to the two boys as I try to determine whether or not they're asleep.

Neither of them appears to be moving and I'm suddenly concerned.

"Guys?"

Two simultaneous groans emerge from the slumped forms. I know they were out later than usual, but this is a little bit over the top. What the hell's the matter with them? They're young; they should be able to handle it.

"So what did you guys do last night?"

Ryan turns his head and opens his eyes a crack, only to squeeze them shut shortly after.

"Went out," he replies breathlessly.

Is he…? No…maybe….

"Care to elaborate?"

He shakes his head 'no' and closes his eyes again.

"Seth?"

"Please Dad, no more questions," my son replies into the counter, his voice shaky.

I can't believe this. I can't believe they're hungover. Have I taught them nothing? I mean, I know kids are going to drink, but to drink so much that they can barely hold their heads up and…speak? That's just ridiculous.

I wasn't the perfect kid, but I always learned from my mistakes. My mother took such pleasure in teaching me a lesson. It's time to teach these two drunken idiots a lesson.

I walk up behind them and situate myself between the two boys. I place a hand on each of their backs and pat them both firmly.

Seth gasps and I can't help but worry that he's going to vomit on the counter…or worse, me.

"Well, I'm glad that you boys had such a good time last night, but unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to drive you to school this morning. You know, early meetings and whatnot. So, you guys can walk, or ride your bikes…or skateboards…whatever. But you better hurry or you're going to be late."

I don't bother suppressing the huge grin that's occupying my face as they both turn and give me incredulous looks through their sleepy eyes and green skin.

Ryan eventually nods and Seth just looks…sick. I better get out of here before things get messy.

"Hurry up, boys. You're not getting out of school today."

I slip my hand through the handle of my briefcase, pull it off the counter and stride out of the kitchen without giving them a second look.

Damn, I'm good. That'll teach 'em.

…………………………..

"Dude…."

I don't wait for Seth to finish his sentence. I don't actually think there is an end to his sentence. Behind me I can hear him heaving. I just keep walking at the snail's pace we've been maintaining since we started our journey. If I actually process what's going on back there, I'm sure I'd have to join him.

Finally, when I realize that Seth's probably a good distance behind me, I stop, shove my freezing hands into the fleecy pockets of my sweater and wait. I know I should be hot, but I can't stop shivering. Fucking alcohol….

"Dude, I don't think I'm going to make it…."

I slowly turn around so as not to jolt or jar anything with sudden movement. Seth's sitting on the curb, his head between his knees.

"Well you can't just sit there," I respond slowly and quietly, motioning toward the row of bushes behind him. "I think you've done enough damage to Mrs. Hunter's rose bushes." I try to ignore the fact that my voice is shaky.

"Crazy old nag deserves it…."

If either of us were capable of smiling right now, we would. Instead, I attempt to swallow my own nausea and Seth nods in defeat, slowly rising to his feet and squinting against the bright morning sun.

"Good call on the sunglasses," he mutters as he catches up to me and we proceed on our way.

"Hm." He's not getting them if that's what he's implying. They're the only thing keeping my head from exploding right this very moment.

"We should have called a cab," he groans.

"He'd know…."

From the corner of my eye I can see Seth nod before swiping at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. Sandy was pissed. I don't want to give him another reason to yell at us tonight. I can already imagine the lecture we're going to get as it is.

We walk for a good ten minutes in near silence, save for the occasional moan or sigh. The past couple blocks have left me increasingly dizzy and finally, when we reach what I normally consider the halfway point to school, I know I have to stop.

"Seth?" I expect my voice to come out much louder than it does and I'm suddenly fearing that I'll have to make the effort to communicate again. Much to my relief, he appears to have heard my first, feeble attempt.

"Yeah?"

"Can we take a break?"

He turns to look at me, as I am now trailing him by a couple steps. His eyes look a little clearer and I'm suddenly jealous that he appears to be recovering quicker than myself. I suppose he deserves to…after all, it was his birthday party.

We stand motionless in the middle of the street for several seconds before he gingerly lowers himself onto the curb. I do the same and stare at my feet until deciding my shoes are too bright and I close my eyes.

My mouth feels like cotton…we should have brought water. I shouldn't expect Seth to think of these things. He's probably only been hungover once or twice.

As if he could read my mind, Seth mumbles, "I'm thirsty."

"You don't say…." I don't know why his comment pisses me off, but I mean, c'mon, what does he expect me to do about it?

"Dude, don't…" he complains, his voice hoarse.

"Don't what?" I ask through my hands, which are supporting my dead-weight head.

"Don't mock me. Not today. Not when I've thrown up more than a geriatric cocker spaniel. Not when everything's spinning before my eyes. Not when my head's going to…_explode_ and break into tiny little pieces any second now…."

Despite my protesting stomach, I can't stop the small laugh that results from his childish whining.

"Duuuuude," he moans, and punches my arm lightly.

I would hit him back, but it's just not in the cards today. I let my upper body fall back into the soft grass of some Newpsie's manicured lawn and stuff my hands back into my sweater pockets. I hear Seth do the same to my right.

A few seconds later, I hear a rustling from beside me, and open one eye to see Seth propped up on one elbow.

"What did you say earlier about being naked?" he asks, a smile playing on his lips.

"Yeah…I was."

"Naked?"

I nod and close my eyes behind the protective barrier of my sunglasses.

He lowers himself back down onto the grass. "I mean, I remember you had to take off your pants because Summer dropped her marg in your lap…but…I thought you dried them or something."

Yeah…that rings a bell, but that's not what I'm talking about. I don't have the energy to tell him so. He's rambling now and even though my head is pounding relentlessly, listening to him recall certain events is somewhat relaxing.

"Why was I wearing a mixing bowl on my head?" he asks suddenly.

I instantly picture Seth walking around with a steel bowl on his head and a wooden spoon in his hand, chanting something I couldn't comprehend at the time…. That's not surprising, though.

"I think you said something about communicating with the Clingons…."

"That's just…yeah. God, I hope Summer was too drunk to remember that."

My stomach rumbles, washing the smile off my face. "Fuck…what did we drink?"

"If I remember correctly…and don't put too much stock into this, Ryan…I think we started with beer, then did a few rounds of shots with, of all people, _the water polo team_…then finished off all the margs because Summer convinced us they would go bad otherwise…."

Yeah, that sounds about right…but something's missing.

"Didn't we funnel?" I whisper.

It all comes rushing back in a hurry. Double funnels running down either side of the giant staircase in Summer's mansion. Seth on one side, myself on the other. Lots and lots of beer…at least, I think it was beer.

We both groan at the same time. Seth must be having the same realization.

"Dude, what were we think --" A corn horn causes us both to jump, our upper bodies springing upright.

My initial thoughts are, 'Sandy's going to kill us" but the bright red car relieves those fears.

Behind the wheel, Summer pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head and leans over to her right, stretching to open the passenger side door.

"Get in, you drunken fools," she demands with a laugh.

Seth and I both stumble to our feet. I steady myself for a second, standing still, trying to put my raging stomach at ease.

"Ryan?" Seth says my name, pulling me from my trance.

"Chino, you look green…."

"I'm fine," I whisper, drawing in a shaky breath. "Just stood up too fast."

"Whatever. Just know that there will be no puking in my car. That rule applies to you too, Cohen."

"Yes, master," he murmurs.

As I climb into the back of the convertible, Summer runs a hand through Seth's disheveled hair.

"Nice hair, Cohen," she says with a smile.

A soft groan is the only response I can hear.

"Wow, you know Cohen's hungover when he lets you touch his hair," she teases, looking to me for some sort of reaction.

I nod and close my eyes again.

The car starts to inch forward and the wind eases my headache to some degree.

"Good to see you've got clean pants on, Chino. Or any pants, for that matter."

My eyes shoot open. That got my attention. I can even see Seth's head turning at his girlfriend's comment.

"What?" I croak, clearing my throat and trying again. "When did…why was I naked?"

She laughs, and in the rearview mirror, I can see her cheeks blushing.

"Well, it's a little fuzzy --"

"What?" Seth nearly shouts.

"My memory, Cohen. Clean it up a there, pal. Anyway," she continues, making sporadic eye contact with me through the mirror, "I walked you guys home and… Ryan was complaining that his pants were stiff --"

"What?" Seth exclaims again.

"God, Cohen, I'm too hungover for this. Take it down a few notches; let me explain. _Anyway_," she starts again, glaring at Seth, "I think I spilled something on Ryan's pants and he was complaining that they were gross and stiff…so I told him that if he kept complaining, I would strip him down like I did to you when I put you to bed. My guess is he kept complaining because I remember folding his pants and placing them in a pile on the floor…."

That makes sense. I'm not saying it's right, but at least that explains why my pants were off.

"You've got to be kidding me?" Seth asks, slack jawed.

"You only took off my pants?" I ask Summer when we come to a red light.

"Dude…" Seth whines, placing his head in his hands. "This is so wrong…."

"As far as I can remember…" she replies casually. "Grow up, Cohen. It's not like I slept with him."

"No, but hearing you say that makes me feel so much better," he throws back at her sarcastically. "You know what is weird, though?" he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand as he turns to face me for a second. "I woke up wearing one of your wife-beaters…."

The only sound to be heard comes from the traffic surrounding us.

Seth's words trigger something in my mind, and fragments of memories start rushing back.

Seth stumbling into the poolhouse after Summer had left…. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was nude. But I think it was too dark to tell for sure. I was in bed. He was complaining he was cold. I told him to put a shirt on. He said he couldn't find one. Asked for my shirt…I pulled it off and gave it to him…I think. Told him I was hot. He reiterated he was cold. He told me to get naked and I, too, would be cold. My boxers whipped out from under the covers…flying through the air…landing on the lampshade. Laughter. Crash. Seth ran into the glass door behind him. More laughter. Opens the door. Leaves.

Shit.

I blink and come into focus on Seth's slack-jawed expression, his eyes are distant for a second before he blinks, too. We lock eyes.

I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. His face turns a dark shade of red.

"What?" Summer asks. I suddenly realize we're parked in the student parking lot at Harbor. She's standing outside the car, her eyes darting between Seth and me.

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something. I set my jaw and shake my head 'no', as firmly as possible without causing fireworks to go off in my head. He looks stunned for a second, but eventually nods in agreement.

"What?" Summer asks again, this time demanding an answer.

"Nothing," Seth says, turning around and reaching for the door handle.

"Yeah…nothing," I add.

Summer's brow is furrowed and I am forced to turn away from her glare as I climb out of the car after Seth.

"Whatever," she says with a shrug. "Something tells me I don't want to know." She holds up her hands and cuts between Seth and I, pushing us both forward toward the stairs.

I catch Seth's eye for a split second and I am suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. His greenish complexion would tell me he's feeling the same way.

I realize we're not moving.

"You guys okay?" Summer asks, placing a hand on Seth's back.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"Shit," Seth groans, voicing my thoughts exactly.

I don't want to think about what happened last night. I don't want to analyze why Summer took my pants off, or why Seth was wearing my wife-beater, or why I was apparently putting on some sort of strip show. Right now, none of that matters. I just want to make it to the bathroom in time.

Simultaneously, Seth and I bolt up the stairs and into the school. We should never have done that funnel. This is the most hellacious hangover ever.


	2. chapter two

_A/N: I have no idea why I decided to add another chapter to this story. Keep in mind it's pure stupidity and mindless fun. _

_Thanks to the lovely **Crashcmb** for the beta. Much appreciated, my dear._

_And I forgot to mention that I've attended the "Schwartz School of Continuity." Hence the warbrobe malfuntionpointed out by Beachtree. Blame it all on Schwartz. I do.

* * *

_

I can't help but feel foreign -- like I'm in a new school, with new people and teachers. Already this morning, I've turned the wrong away to go to the bathroom -- somehow ending up outside --, called one teacher by the wrong name, and walked up and down the hall three times before realizing my locker was in the next corridor.

Things are so not cool right now. My stomach's inside-out, my head has moved right on past pounding and is now "drilling," and every single muscle in my body feels like it has been stretched beyond its range. All I need to top off my day is a greeting from the water polo team. However, if my memory serves me correctly -- and there is no way to be sure of that --, they're probably feeling just equally rough right now.

"I've got the worst news ever," Seth announces, leaning face-first into the locker beside mine. Oddly, I can understand his motives to participate in such a strange-looking activity. I'd be doing the same thing if I didn't have a social conscience.

"I'm pretty sure finding out about my little strip tease last night will be hard to top," I point out, searching through my locker for that _fucking _History text as I lethargically sort through my books for the fifth time. Even though it's just Seth, and we're both way too hungover to care about that shit right now, I can feel my face warming at the mere mention of last night's…_inappropriateness_.

"Mmmm," he groans in agreement, but holds up a hand, index finger extended pointedly. "Try this: we can't go home."

I halt my book-organizing for a second, lean over to look at Seth. "Why's that?" I ask nervously, and even though I know he's just trying to make a point by having me believe we're now homeless, the idea of not being able to sprawl out on that king-sized bed the second I arrive back in the pool house, almost drives me to tears.

I've spent way too much time around Marissa lately….

"Dad left a text message on my cell and said we have to stop by the butcher and pick up…_meat." _He spits out the last word with such disgust.

I had been surprised the first time Sandy had asked me to pick up the meat order from the butcher. Where I'm from, that shit was bought from a grocery store.

I say the words as I'm thinking them. "But we don't have a car."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth nod against the locker.

"You're right," I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.

"What?" he mumbles.

"That is the worst news ever."

I feel my phone begin to vibrate against my thigh. I retrieve it and flip it open. Sandy's name is on the display. "It's your dad."

"What does Stalin want now?" Seth says into the locker's metal panel.

"He wants us to drink plenty of water…."

* * *

Before this morning, I thought I had been hungover before. But no, I've come to realize that that was just mild, post-alcohol induced discomfort. This…this is sheer hell. This feels like the all-mighty alcohol has wrapped its claws around my insides and is wringing them out like a dishrag. There's nothing left inside of me. 

I spent half of first period in the bathroom with my head in the toilet. Surely, that has to be a record. Nothing's more humiliating than having the 86-year-old janitor clean _around _you and tell you about his talking parrot while you heave up organs you thought were down there for good.

However, seeing as how I have an innate ability to top myself, vomiting in the trash can in front of my English class might have been worse than hearing about wrinkle-man's parrot. Yep, pretty sure it was. And I'm even more sure that right now, I couldn't care less, which has me dreading tomorrow. I want to live in this fuzzy non-reality for as long as it takes for my misfortunes to fade from people's minds.

In spite of my agony, I somehow rallied all my in-born Cohen resistance and came out of four class periods and a horrid lunch break, half-alive.

More than anything, I just wish I could go home. Home, with the warm, clean sheets and the pillow-top mattress and the…private bathroom. My mouth begins to water at the mere thought -- which is strange, and slightly comforting, considering I had come to accept the fact that I no longer have a drop of liquid left in my body.

So much goodness awaits me. And yet, here I am, walking -- uh…shuffling -- to the butcher to pick up a shitload of raw meat with my equally-inebriated partner in crime. We're definitely the most pathetic of all twosomes. Put us in Lycra and we're the polar opposite of all that is heroic.

I've been spending way too much time with Summer….

"I need to sit down."

I look over at Ryan, and well, from what I can actually see of him -- beneath the sunglasses and over-sized sweater -- he's looking pretty desperate, and I fear what might happen if I say "no." I'm not opposed to sitting down -- no, that's totally cool with me -- but we've been on this journey for 15 minutes, and 12-and-a-half of them have been spent sitting down…or prone to the ground.

He falls onto a conveniently located bench, and all but curls up into a ball. Yep, the Chino has definitely left the boy. He's all Cohen now.

I drop onto the opposite side of the bench, causing it to lurch under my weight. Which, apparently, wasn't so thoughtful of me because Ryan immediately staggers over to the garbage can across the sidewalk and does some lurching of his own.

I smile and wave at Mrs. Hunter as she walks by with her two Shih-Tzus. She thinks she's disgusted now; just wait until she goes to trim her rosebushes….

"You all right there, buddy?" I call out after a minute or so, maybe too enthusiastically, drawing stares from all directions as Ryan gets a unique perspective on Newport waste.

I don't care anymore. Not today. I'm desensitized to vomit and all its forms. Vomit and I are, sadly, two peas in a pod. We're close. Buddies, even. At least, that's what I keep trying to tell it in hopes that will stop trying to kill me every 30 minutes.

Ryan removes himself from the garbage can, leans back and bows his head as he grips the edge of the painted metal barrel. "I can't believe the girls went home," he groans weakly.

I, too, had been moderately perturbed when Summer first informed me that she and Marissa were taking off early, leaving us ride-less. That is, until she told me it was to clean the house up a bit more before her dad came home from Europe and gave her up for adoption.

"Yeah, that was inconvenient," I reply mindlessly, too distracted by the sight of Ryan trying to take off his sweater. _Trying_ is the key word here.

He gets the back over his head, but somehow, can't negotiate the arm holes, and ends up twisted in a tangled mess of limbs and black fleece.

"Dude, you suck," I inform him, standing, swaying, gripping the bench for balance, finding my equilibrium, then nodding in satisfaction, heading over to save him from the attack of the sweater.

After much grunting and groaning, pulling and yanking, a couple of "ow"s and some serious leveraging, the sweater comes loose.

I stumble backward onto the bench, sweater in hand, sweating, panting and completely -- embarrassingly -- exhausted. When I look back up at Ryan, I can't help but laugh.

"Where's your wifebeater?"

The second the words come out of my mouth, I can feel myself blush as I remember _where_ his wifebeater spent the night. On _me. _In _my_ bed. After he _stripped_ it off in front of me.

Shit. I so don't need this right now….

He shrugs, grabs the sweater from my hands and uses it to wipe the sweat from his face.

I feel my brain racing -- trudging, actually -- to find something to say. Something that doesn't involve Ryan stripping, and me wearing his clothes. "So you're going to walk the rest of the way shirtless?"

He pushes his sunglasses up on top of his head, wipes at his forehead and then stares at me with steely eyes, daring me to convince him that this is a bad idea.

"Ooookay," I say under my breath, rising from the bench again. "Ready?"

"Hmm."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

* * *

"I'm not going in there." 

I sigh. This is not a good time for Seth to grow balls. The thought of going into a place that stinks of blood and raw meat is enough to send me bolting to the closest garbage can…or sewage drain...or rosebush. Anything. I'm not picky.

"You have to," I say sternly, leaning over and resting my hands on my knees. My body's failing me. I feel like, any minute now, I'm just going to shrivel up and die – "Game Over" flashing over my head.

I have to admit, Seth looks pretty rough too, and I know he'd probably be worse off going in there than me, but just the thought of it….

"No, Ryan…." I look up when Seth pauses, his face drawn and pale and slicked with sweat. He's swallowing hard, one hand on his stomach. Shit. This really isn't looking good for me. "You have to go pick up the order."

I stand up straight, ready to concede…when I see it.

Six simple words.

A little sign from heaven.

"I can't," I answer matter-of-factly, pointing to the writing on the window that says "No shirt, No shoes, No service."

Apparently, the half-drunken, barely-functional state-of mind I was in when I dressed this morning, has really paid off.

"Aaaaaaaaarrgh," Seth groans quietly, placing his head in his hands and dramatically rolling his neck around, looking like he has just escaped from the insane-asylum.

He stares at the window for a second through a crack in his fingers. His face suddenly lights up and he digs into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" I ask, sitting on the curb -- because I'm now 80 and can't stand for more than five consecutive minutes.

Seth points to the number on the window just above the "no shirt" sign.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up on order for Cohen. Do you deliver?"

Only Seth….

"Well, maybe you can make an exception just this once. I tip well."

Seth turns to me, gives me a thumbs up. I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, well, you see, it's not far at all. I'm actually outside."

My entire body shivers as a gusty wind blows by. But I can't put my sweater back on until this meat is in our hands. I'm not forfeiting my bargaining position. Instead, I rub my hands up and down my bare arms.

"No, like, outside your store."

Seth knocks on the glass window of the store, waves to the girl on the phone.

"Thanks." He flips his phone shut. "I'm quite proud of myself, Ryan."

"Super," I groan, shoving my arms into the appropriate holes of my sweater and slipping it over my head. I can't believe how cold I am all of a sudden.

When I stand back up, I am faced with Seth, his arms folded across his chest, looking as defiant as he can possibly muster at this point in time…considering.

"What?" I ask, knowingly, a shit-eating grin on my face.

He shakes his head disappointedly. "Yeah, sure, now you put it on…."

* * *

I set the bags down on the ground again, trying again to get a better grip -- or, at least, one that doesn't cut off all my circulation. My body's been through enough shit today as it is. Last thing I need is to have to have my hands amputated. 

I open and close my fists a few times, working the blood through my fingers.

"Are you coming," Ryan asks, turning around to face me.

"My bags are heavier than yours," I whine, knowing all too well how incorrect I am, but willing to see if I can guilt him into accepting even more of the load – maybe all of it.

"No, they're not," he says coldly, tiredly…shakily. I can feel that stage coming on myself. I had no idea the shakes came in waves. One minute, I'm sure I'm on the road to recovery, the next I'm floppy and weak and my teeth are chattering together like I'm in the Goddamn Arctic or something.

"It wasn't worth it," I admit.

Ryan rubs the back of his neck with his hand before sighing and asking, "What?"

"My birthday party," I pout. At the mere verbalization of the word "party," my stomach does another somersault. My entire body has been conditioned….

Ryan sets his bags down on the side of the road, meanders over to where I'm standing. "I don't know," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweater, staring off into the ocean. "From what I remember, it was a hell of a good time."

His voice is shaking, but somehow there's a smile on his face. Surely, I can muster the same.

"Yeah, it was fun. I wish I could remember more of it…."

Ryan laughs, groans, reaches under his sunglasses to rub his eyes. "I need a smoke."

I nod, despite the fact that I, personally, have absolutely _no_ need for a cigarette.

My nose scrunches up when I get yet another whiff of alcohol.

"Do you smell that?" I ask, fighting the urge not to gag on the fumes. "I've been getting whiffs of that all day. Maybe it's just my conscience trying to make me more miserable than I already am…."

He sniffs the air, gives up. "What?"

"Alcohol." I grimace, reaching for my shirt and smelling the fabric. Nope. Downy fresh. "Where's that coming from?"

Ryan leans toward me, forcefully pushes my head down and sticks his nose into my hair. "Oh yeah," he chokes, stepping back abruptly and clearing his throat. "There it is."

"My…precious jewfro?" I mutter, broken. I reach up and rub my hand in my curls, then bring my fingers to my nose. "Whoa!" I lean back as the strength of the repugnant smell of stale alcohol attacks my senses.

"How…?"

Ryan looks at the ground for a second, familiar thought-lines creasing his mouth.

"There was a bathtub," he eventually says, hugs his body as another shiver violently shakes him.

A bathtub…. A bathtub….

Oh fuck.

"Dirty," I mutter, and I hear Ryan simultaneously saying the same thing in a sharp whisper.

A quick slide-show from the night before reels through my head at an incredible speed. I was by the pool, my hands wandering all over Summer. She called me dirty. I was shouting, "Dirty? Dirty?" She laughed, fell off the lawn chair. Ryan stumbled over to see what all the commotion was about. I told him I was, apparently, "Dirty." He said I should take a bath. So I did. In Summer's father's bathroom -- in a tub full of beer.

Ryan had a sponge. Wrung out the beer onto my hair. Yeah…dirty.

I shake my head. Oh God. Was I naked? No, I don't want to remember anymore….

I want to die.

I look over at Ryan, he meets my gaze with wide, horror-filled eyes.

My stomach leaps into my throat, and I barely have time to rush over to the familiar depository of Mrs. Hunter's rose bushes before I empty whatever happens to be left in my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ryan doing the same in the magnolias.

Whatever. The old nag deserves it.

* * *

I set my briefcase down by the doorway to the kitchen and the second I look up, my jaw drops, my eyes instantly widening at the scene in front of me. 

"Sandy! What are you doing?"

Someone has kidnapped my husband and replaced him with…Mary Poppins…or Aunt Jemima, or someone who cooks… _a lot._ There are platters of grilled meat scattered over the counter and table, along with home fries and sausages and grilled vegetables. Everything.

My gaze drifts over to Sandy, who looks at his hands, shrugs, and wipes them on his apron before smiling mischievously. "The boys are hungover!" he exclaims loudly.

I lean back against the wall, shaking my head. "_What_?"

"They're hungover. It's like night of the living dead in this house. Apparently, they took partying to a whole new level last night. A level that includes Tequila and Vodka, I'm sure," he rambles before adding, "I just hope I'm not being naïve by believing that's all they had…."

"Hold on," I say, stopping him and attempting to backtrack. "Last night? When they went to Summer's? They were drinking?"

"C'mon, honey. You had to know they were going to drink. A kid's seventeenth birthday party isn't usually filled with games of pin the tail on the donkey and spin the bottle. Though…." Sandy looks up from his hamburger patties, as if pondering the idea himself.

"No," I say abruptly, not allowing him further opportunity to embarrass me. "I didn't know they'd be drinking. If I did, I would have never allowed it to happen."

Sandy laughs, which only infuriates me more. He looks me in the eye. "Honey."

"Don't _honey_ me!" I scold, crossing my hands over my chest and pushing off the wall, taking a step forward. "They're our kids, Sandy. We're responsible for them. And I'm angry that you knew they were going to be drinking and didn't do anything about it!"

"All right, all right," Sandy concedes, holding his hands up in surrender. "But in my defense, I thought we had smarter kids."

He continues when he sees me shake my head in confusion. "I didn't think they'd take it to such an extreme."

I feel the blood draining from my face -- that instinctual, motherly worry making my stomach turn.

What _the hell _happened to my boys?

Sandy must notice my panic because he laughs again, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before coming up beside me. "They're fine. They're just…a little…under the weather."

I let out a tension-riddled sigh. "And, what? You're going to cure them by having a barbeque?"

"Nope," he says, beaming. "I'm going to _torture_ them by having a barbeque."

I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "You're enjoying this entirely too much."

He smiles widely. "I know!"

I have to laugh. Still, part of my mind can't help but worry about the boys…and their livers.

I pick an oily french-fry off one of the platters on the counter, nibbling on it half-heartedly. "I don't know if this is going to work," I say doubtfully, hopping up onto the counter, pointing the fry at Sandy. "Remember when we were in my dorm room, all hungover and tired, and we'd order in pizza and anything soaked in grease to make us feel better?"

The memory is oddly soothing. Such a carefree time. A time without children. A time without worry.

"Trust me, honey," he assures me confidently. "You haven't seen them. This _will _work."

He looks like a little kid in a candy shop. Giddy, almost.

"This is kind of sadistic," I point out with a chuckle.

He glances over his shoulder, those big innocent-looking brown eyes filled with delight. "Isn't it great?"

* * *

I knock gently on the pool house door, pressing up against the glass to get a glare-free peek inside. 

Ryan's lying face-first on the bed, dressed in a ridiculously heavy sweater considering the weather. He must be boiling.

I knock again, this time harder, wincing as my knuckles protest. After a few seconds, I give up and push the door open. Somehow, the barely audible "whoosh" awakes him. He must be programmed to that noise.

"Dinner's ready," I say softly. I can't help but be gentle with him, despite Sandy's urges to be as "Hitler-esque" as possible -- strange choice of words, coming from a Jewish man. It's just that Ryan looks so…so…in need of his mother.

He rolls onto his side and tentatively locks gazes with me. He looks as guilty as a puppy that has just peed on the floor. Yep, he knows he's in trouble. Which means there's no need for me to raise my iron fist. I think the boy has suffered enough. I wish him luck getting through the grease-fest that awaits him in the kitchen.

He nods and painfully arranges his body into a sitting position.

I wince as I watch him engage in his struggle. I'd never admit it to him or Seth, but I've been there.

He pauses at the edge of the bed, buries his head into his chest and takes a few shaky breaths. Eventually, he manages to rise onto his feet.

Fighting every single one of my screaming instincts, I refrain from running over to at least hug the pathetic-looking kid. Instead, I stand back and hold open the pool house door, placing a supportive hand on his back as he walks out toward the kitchen.

Sandy's already corralled Seth from his room by the time we walk in. It would appear as though Seth was also enjoying the nap -- the telltale signs of sleep lingering in his eyes. It feels good to know him that well.

Along with that wonderful knowledge, comes the ability to recognize when he's going to be sick. And I suddenly feel like this isn't such a good idea…not that I ever really agreed to this in the first place.

Ryan sits down with an "oomph" in his chair, and I look pleadingly to Sandy.

But he's ready for me -- his jaw set, shaking his head determinedly. He's not going to let me spoil his fun. He's such a child.

"So," Sandy starts as I take my seat and start helping myself to the plethora of food on the table. "How was school today?"

Oh, yes, this is my husband the lawyer. He's got a set list of questions. He smiles broadly, looking from Seth to Ryan and then back again, his bushy eyebrows raised maybe a little too high. I should pour him a glass of wine….

I pass the plate to Ryan, who looks at it warily before accepting, muttering a very quiet, "Thank-you."

"Well?"

"Uh…good," Seth croaks, grimacing as Sandy plunks down a sausage onto each of the boys' plates.

"Yeah?" Sandy asks, ripping off a huge bite from his burger, chewing enthusiastically.

"Yeah…. It was…long," Seth says honestly, draining the glass of water I had set by his plate.

"Long? Because you guys were out so late last night?" Sandy prods.

I can barely focus on cutting my own food. This is the most painful dinner-time theater I've ever had to witness. And, unfortunately, I've seen a lot of that crap.

Ryan nods. Seth grunts. That would appear to be all they have in their repertoire tonight.

"Eat!" Sandy encourages suddenly, causing Ryan to jump in his seat. "It's my way of thanking you guys for picking this stuff up for me. I really appreciate that."

I cover my mouth with one hand, trying very hard not to smile and avoiding all eye contact with Sandy.

Ryan's the first to test the food. He cuts off the end of his sausage and quickly puts it in his mouth, chewing very slowly, staring hard at his glass of water.

Seth looks up at me with helpless eyes.

_I want to help you, sweetie, I really do, but you dug your own grave._

He eventually obeys and takes a bite of his food; his facial expression makes it look like we're forcing him to eat his beloved childhood pet.

I don't even want to think about how much they would have had to drink in order to still be this hungover the night after.

"Here, try one of these half-pound burgers!" Sandy says loudly, placing a juicy, steaming hamburger on each of their plates.

Yep. That's my husband -- 12-years-old at heart.

When I see Ryan swallow three times in rapid succession, I know I've got to put an end to this. Fast.

"Okay! I think the boys have had enough."

Sandy looks at me with the most horrified of all expression, frozen in place, holding the burger platter in the air.

"Leave, Ryan!" I urge suddenly.

He doesn't need to be told twice, bolting to the pool house. I just pray he makes it….

"Honey?" Sandy whines.

"Sandy, we don't need a mess on our hands!" I shoot back, placing my fork down on my plate.

"Seth, you can leave, too. Take a bottle of water with you."

He looks at me like I'm Jesus -- or Moses -- sweeping down from heaven to rescue him, and slowly gets up to leave.

When it's just Sandy and I left sitting at opposite ends of the table, I prop my chin up with my palm and began to laugh.

"It's not funny," Sandy protests, but even though I can't see him clearly because my eyes are filling with tears, I can hear the laughter in his voice.

"I was trying to teach them a lesson!" he adds as he begins to chuckle along with me.

I run a finger under my eyes to clean up any mascara that might have bled with my tears. "Did you ever think of grounding them?" I ask matter-of-factly.

Sandy sighs, leans back in his chair and appraises the large quantities of food that still occupy the table. "That might have been easier…."

I laugh again at my husband's unique ability to make everything more complicated than it has to be, and help myself to one of his famous, half-pound hamburgers. "At least I know where Seth gets it from…."

* * *

"Should we be worried?" 

I look down onto the mop of blond hair resting on my chest, rubbing my hand up and down over the soft skin of her bare shoulder. "Nah."

"I haven't heard any movement upstairs." Kirsten pushes herself away from me, brushing her hair out of her face before gazing into my eyes -- that sexy and strangely appealing motherly worry causing creases to form around her eyes and mouth.

I let my hand wander up her shoulder, neck and then settle behind her head, closing my eyes and guiding her lips toward mine. She leans in.

"I'll check on Ryan; you check on Seth," she says, jerking back suddenly, patting my leg like I'm her pet Labrador.

That's just great. We finally have some quiet around here, and she wants to disrupt the peace.

"But, honey," I whine, raising my voice and turning around on the couch as she walks away, "we've had meat…and we've watched TV; there's only one thing left to make this the perfect night…."

"Go check on Seth," she says again without turning around, shutting the door behind her and making her way to the pool house.

I groan and push myself off the couch, mumbling obscenities as I wander up to Seth's bedroom and knock lightly on the closed door. When there's no response, I turn the knob and let myself into the completely black room.

When I reach the end of the short hallway, I run my hand up the wall and flick the light switch.

The sudden brightness is met with a deep, and surprisingly genuine, groan. Seth pulls the covers up over his head and rolls over.

I walk over and grab the corner of his duvet, flipping it back suddenly. His forearm immediately rises to cover his eyes and he grimaces in pain.

"What are you trying to do, kill me?" he croaks.

It's sad that he thinks this is all my doing. But I realize that there's no way he's awake enough to manufacture and display sarcasm.

"Trust me, son; this is all your own doing."

He swallows, lowering his hand from his face but keeping his eyes unnaturally clenched shut. I sit on the edge of the bed, grab the half-empty bottle of water off his nightstand and hand it to him. I'm thirsty just looking at him.

He blindly accepts the bottle and takes a few desperate gulps, sighing deeply afterward. If his ailment was caused by anything other than his own stupidity, I'd be by his side, nursing him back to health. But I know that's not what he needs right now. What he really needs is a kick in the ass, but with the sensitivity toward child-abuse these days, I'm going to have to dole out a more subtle and less-direct form of punishment.

"You know, Seth, I was hoping I'd raised you to use that brain of yours, but after last night's…events, and seeing just how…affected you guys were, I'm seriously considering hiring a detective to follow you guys around everywhere. That or fitting you and Ryan with tracking devices."

"Well, if you're at all curious about where we were today, I'm sure that you can track our every step by following the trail of vomit," he says, his voice cracking several times during his short, displeased rant.

I frown at the thought of it, and wonder just what kind of mess -- and what scenes -- they've caused today in their extremely hungover states.

"I'll pass on that, thanks, but we need to talk about this." Seth groans, tries to roll over. I grab his shoulder and roll him back onto his back. "Now, Seth."

"Father, please…I'm suffering from a hellacious hangover."

He sounds so pathetic. So defeated. But it's his own fault, and there's no way in hell I'm going to take pity on him now.

"Yeah well, this _hellacious hangover _of yours is going to last for another two weeks."

He opens his eyes, squints at me. "Two weeks?"

"No video games. No TV. Come home straight from school every day."

Finally his face softens. Either he's truly exhausted and can't even formulate a rebuttal, or he realizes he's just facing the inevitable. He nods, and waves a hand in the air -- a very Seth Cohen way of nonchalantly accepting something he disapproves of.

That was easy. I realize that tomorrow, when he can function like a normal human being, he might raise a few unique arguments defending his stupidity, but I'll deal with that then.

Right now, I've won.

That's good enough for me.

I get up off the bed and Seth immediately rolls over, pulling the covers back over his head.

I turn the light off, but before I leave the room, I turn around. "Oh, and, son?"

I hear a faint grunt. This hangover has turned him into a Neanderthal.

"Happy Birthday," I say, closing the door quietly behind me.

* * *

"How was Ryan?" I ask Kirsten from my spot on the couch when I hear the door open. 

"Well," she says, walking over and taking up the spot beside me, "he apologized a million times and offered to do laundry." She frowns, shakes her head. "I don't want to know why." She turns, looks me in the eye. "How's Seth?"

"He whined and complained because I grounded him from TV, video games and a social life of any kind for two weeks."

She laughs and snuggles up close to me, wrapping her arms around my stomach and resting her cheek on my chest.

"Well, I'd say that things are starting to return to normal," she says with a sigh.

I run my fingers through her silky hair, pulling it back and off her forehead so I can see her bright blue eyes.

She glances up at me. "My birthday's coming up in a couple of weeks. You're not going to ban me from the TV if I'm hungover the next day, are you?" she asks innocently.

I smile back at her. "Nah. You're a big girl. Plus, when you get to be your age --"

She slaps my stomach hard with a flat palm. "Don't you dare finish that sentence if you plan on seeing any action tonight."

At least now I know it's an option….

"Well, we're grown adults…I don't see why we have to wait for your birthday to get good and loaded."

She leans back, stares at me seriously. "I've got a couple bottles of pinot I've been saving for a while…."

I can feel my heart begin to race, and I can't help but get excited at the idea of getting hammered with this hot woman, who just happens to be my wife, and having wild, passionate sex all night long.

I can feel lust suddenly altering the situation. She looks different. Younger. Like the girl I fell in love with in college. "What do you say we crack them open…have a little fun of our own?"

She grins seductively, licking her lips. "I'd like that." She pauses, distracted for a moment. "But the boys can't know about this. Not after…today."

I laugh abruptly. "Honey, after tonight, _I _might even forget about today."

She gets onto her knees on the couch and straddles my legs, pushing me up against the back cushions, kissing my neck tenderly then nipping at my ear. "Mr. Cohen," she whispers, "you're going to have one hellacious hangover."

"I'm okay with that…."


End file.
